


Legend Becomes Myth

by JayofOlympus



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: A treatise on how legends become myths, Elder Witchers, Gen, Legendary Figures, Lesser Known Witchers, Mythologisation if that's even a word, Mythology - Freeform, OG Witchers, Post-Canon, Riff on Arthuriana, hello and welcome to my thesis on mythology told via witcher characters, like significantly post-canon, technically they are all dead but that's not the focus of the fic, you can pretend they're all still alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayofOlympus/pseuds/JayofOlympus
Summary: "Legend and History can often be found hand in hand, intertwined more intimately than lovers. History creates Legend, and Legend informs History. As the years drag on, however, Legend slowly drifts into Myth. Luck becomes destiny, heroes become demigods, and men become symbols."A contemplation on how the Continent would mythologise the witchers of old.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Legend Becomes Myth

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Cake Shop, because they're all awesome, and encourage me when I go off on weird tangents about mythology. Major thanks to Lohrendrell for betaing, and Ali for not murdering me over whatever was happening with tenses in the first draft.
> 
> Biggest thanks go to minutiae, for being the one to inspire this fic in the first place by musing about how large a horse would have to be in order to cart Arnaghad around.

Legend and History can often be found hand in hand, intertwined more intimately than lovers. History creates Legend, and Legend informs History. As the years drag on, however, Legend slowly drifts into Myth. Luck becomes destiny, heroes become demigods, and men become symbols.

When men are already steeped in magic and mystery, it becomes inevitable that they will be transformed through the slow march of time. Witchers as a whole are men of legend, and none more so than the first of their Order. The founders of the witcher schools are legends even among their own kind, and time shapes them into great heroes of mythic proportions.

The tales of the founders are easily shaped into something quite beyond the truth. The men themselves become shells and caricatures both; recognisable, yet not.

* * *

Gezras of Leyda’s image morphed from half-elven and hated to half-fae and beloved. He was called fickle, but fair, at least according to his own rules. Stories spoke of him leading his Cats through faerie circles in order to disappear from any who might be hunting them. They said he could ride the wind itself, and owned a hood that would make him more shadow than man.

Time granted him the title of saint, and he became Saint Gezras the Avenger; a story told to remind mages what happens when they stray too far from their humanity, what happens when they let their desire for progress and innovation be used as an excuse for callous cruelty. Gezras of Leyda, in short, became a symbol of vengeance against those who abuse their power.

“Look and see what happens when you try to warp Chaos to your whims,” they said, “with no care for what might happen to those weaker than you. Lives are not disposable. You must follow rules more strict than any laws. The consequences otherwise are dire. Take care that you do not find yourself paying the Cat’s Price.”

The elves spoke in whispers of this Avenger. Whispered of a symbol stolen from them. The Cat was _theirs_ , and this witcher was just one more thing taken and twisted by the dh’oine.

(Gezras of Leyda became Gezras of the Mists, they say. He simply vanished into the air one day, but none believe he is truly gone. He will return if he is needed. Corrupt mages beware the return of Gezras the Avenger. He is simply biding his time.)

Ivar Evil-Eye quickly became a figure mired in mystery. A Seer whose dire predictions of death and destruction went unheeded by his fellows, and so he became a schemer, always two, five, ten steps ahead, planning for a looming threat in the future while the others fought monsters and each other. He worked unnoticed to ensure their survival.

Ivar’s Vipers became his spies and assassins, slipping in and out of places they shouldn’t be, whilst Ivar worked his machinations. He became a Trickster, always the manipulator, to ensure his plans came to fruition. A shapechanger, who could become the serpent he named his school for, able to hide, and listen, and strike from the shadows.

The tragedy of Ivar Evil-Eye was that all that he foretold came to pass. The Order fractured, the humans turned on them, the schools were each beset by violence and destruction, and the Wild Hunt rode on the Continent. Everything that he Saw came to pass, and yet none of his fellows cared to listen until it was too late for them. But he made his plans, and readied his blade of fire, and waited.

(They say he waits even now for more visions. They say that he will not rest until the end of time, always waiting, watching, in case the Hunt returns, though his chosen Disciple witnessed their defeat.)

The First Witcher and the Living Mountain became two sides of a coin. They, above even their brethren, were symbol made flesh. They were Civilisation and Nature, Order and Chaos, Nobility and Practicality.

Arnaghad became a symbol of the wild places; that which refuses to be tamed. A mountain of a man, wearing the pelt of a dire bear. He was depicted riding a chariot pulled by bears; not tamed, because a wild thing cannot tame a wild thing, but he commanded them all the same.

He was the Living Mountain, and could not be contained. He hunted because it was the way of the world. Witchers were as much predators as the things they hunted. They were simply part of the cycle of life and death.

(It is said that, one day, Nature will return to take back what was once civilised. They say that Arnaghad sleeps deep in the mountains, and will wake when a predator of his prowess is needed once more. They say that the Living Mountain will one day shake himself awake and return to the hunt.)

Erland of Larvik, founder of the noble school of the Griffin, was made into a beacon of hope. He was a warrior mage. The First Witcher. He stood as a protector of the innocent. A knight in shining armour for those beset by the monsters of the Continent.

Some stories crowned him King Erland, that he may stand as an example of what a good and righteous leader should be, for he was kind, and generous. They painted him in gleaming armour, doing battle with terrible beasts, bringing peace and order with him wherever he went.

(Erland the First will return in our hour of greatest need, they say. He still wanders the world, protecting those in need. When the Continent needs him, he will be there, holding back the tides of evil.)

The Wolf school had no single founder; born from the fracturing of the Order, the few remaining witchers saw no other choice than to form a faction of their own and leave their original home forever. The stories of the Wolves were of a pack of hunters retreating into the mountains, where they would remain until the White Wolf was set out on his Path, to meet his Destiny. The White Wolf stood as their most recognisable son, and became the most mythologised figure to have passed through their school.

When there was call to speak of the school’s founding, more than one name was spoken. Wolves run in packs, after all, and even in those days, the Wolves were a pack, or so the stories said. Barmin, and Deglan, and Rennes, and Vesemir, all hunted as one, the blueprint for their pups to follow.

The pups were the ones to win acclaim. The ones to earn their place as myth.

Geralt of Rivia, the twicegrassed, the White Wolf, became a symbol of witchers as protectors. His story was so easy to shift. Born of the druids, a child of prophecy, abandoned to the wolves as a mere babe, found by the witchers and raised to be the greatest Wolf to roam the Continent. Father to Empress Cirilla, the Lady of Space and Time. The White Wolf, defeater of the Wild Hunt, was far too easy to mythologise.

(He retired, they say, but is still out there. If anything else threatens the safety of the Continent, he will be there. Until that time, however, he will enjoy his rest.)

Eskel became a saint. A warrior mage who learned at the knee of Erland the First. A calm and loyal friend to Geralt, his right hand through every battle. He was a brother, a guide, and a protector all in one. Kind and compassionate, but fierce in battle. Beside him stood Lambert, more boastful than his brothers, but all the more relatable for it. Lambert was the kind of hero that people could truly aspire to be. Not an unattainable level of heroism like the others, just a man who tries, and sometimes fails, but means well.

(The White Wolf, the Last Wolf, Geralt will mourn them, but they faced their deaths with courage and honour, and he will protect the Continent in their memory. Their stories will live on as inspiration, pushing men to become better.)

* * *

Myths don’t care for the men behind them. When a man becomes a symbol, he is no longer allowed to be human. Any trait which conflicts with the symbol he has been transformed into must be stripped away. They cannot be man and symbol both.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you give me free reign to ramble about legends and mythology.


End file.
